


Of Heads, Hearts, and Helplessness

by bjrit92



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:10:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjrit92/pseuds/bjrit92
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something isn't right in 221B, but John isn't sure what it is. Is his mind playing tricks? Surely this cannot be real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Heads, Hearts, and Helplessness

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Do Not Own.

John Watson hummed cheerily to himself as he walked in the door to 221B Baker Street, a bag of groceries in his hand. The flat looked as it always had, albeit with a bit of tidying John had taken upon himself to do that morning. The sunshine streamed in through the open curtains and he walked into the kitchen to set the groceries on the unexpectedly experiment-free counter.  
“Sherlock?” John called to no avail; it seemed Sherlock was out.  
‘Out where? Surely not a case. He hasn’t texted me all day. Hmm. Odd.”  
John filled the kettle and put it on to boil. Looking out the kitchen into the sitting area, John glanced over toward the open box on Sherlock’s desk containing a severed pig’s hoof that was emitting some sort of gaseous smell. John rolled his eyes and was almost shocked at himself for how much the hoof didn’t bother him. Looking away from the hoof he caught sight of the closed curtains over the window. ‘I really should open those more often, it’s no wonder it’s so dark in here’ John mused to himself as he turned back to the kitchen to begin setting away the groceries. He looked once at the empty counter before his eyes found the grocery bag sitting on the kitchen table. ‘Did I put…oh, well.’ He retrieved the bag from the table and turned to set it on the counter when he realized the counter was covered with scientific equipment. Beakers half-full with multicolored liquids, temperature gauges, hot plates, torn notebook paper covered in Sherlock’s cramped writing littered every inch of the space. ‘What the…’  
“Sherlock? Are you here?” John called to the empty flat. He set the groceries on the table as he heard a high-pitched scream. He turned calmly to the stove and took the kettle off the burner. Pulling out a clean (ish) cup from the cabinet he poured the liquid from the kettle and set the tea in to steep. Turning back to the bag of groceries he noticed the empty sack lying neatly folded on the clean counter, groceries missing. Perplexed, ‘Did I put those away already? Must have forgotten.’ He opened the Not-For-Science cabinet and noticed the few groceries sitting orderly on the shelves. Glancing down, he grabbed his teacup and took a large swallow before choking and spitting it out. Instead of hot tea, he had taken a large gulp of ice-cold coffee. ‘What the devil?’ John stared into the offending liquid swirling in the cup.  
“John.”  
He looked up at the sound of his name, said sternly and resonating throughout the flat.  
“John Watson.”  
It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Looking around, John called out, “Sherlock? Is that you?”  
There was no reply. Utterly confused, John turned to the fridge. Mayhap there would be something drinkable in there. He had of course, forgotten the milk in his shopping. He opened the door and gasped before slamming it back closed. There was a head in the fridge. ‘Again?! What the DEVIL does he need a bloody severed head for now?!’ Bracing himself, he opened the door to the fridge again, slower, steeling himself for the sight. He did not gasp this time on the sight of the head. This time, he screamed louder than he thought possible as his body flew back against the counter of it’s own accord. The head was familiar. The curly brown locks were matted down and the porcelain skin looked, if possible, even paler in the cold. The eyes were closed but as John stared in horror, they began to twitch. Sherlock’s disembodied head moved and the eyes opened to stare straight at John, who was having trouble breathing. The mouth opened.  
“John.”  
The named man clutched at his heart and his mouth guppied trying to form words or a scream that would not come.  
“John. Why?” Sherlock’s head asked. The blue eyes stared coldly into John’s and he felt himself falling to the ground.  
“Sh—Sh—Sher…” John floundered, reeling against the counter for support as he gaped at his friend’s head.  
“Why, John? Why didn’t you catch me? I trusted you.”  
Fresh tears sprung into John’s eyes at the scathing words.  
“Sher—Sherlock…wh—but…” John gasped for words; air was in precious short supply. The cabinets flew open around the kitchen and their contents began flying off the shelves.  
“WHY, John? WHY DID YOU LET ME FALL? I THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME. I TRUSTED YOU!” Sherlock’s head was screaming at him now. John could barely see through his tears and, dodging the flying objects, he mustered the strength to reach up and slam the refrigerator door closed. Instantly the screaming stopped and the objects fell to the ground. The flat was cold now. The silence and emptiness was nearly tangible. John leaned against the counter, trying to catch his breath and stop his tears. Breathing deeply as a drowning man catching his first lungful of oxygen, he fisted his eyes.  
“John.”  
John looked up and his head swiveled immediately toward the open window in the sitting room. Wind gusted into the flat, and with it, Sherlock’s voice.  
“John. Please.”  
As if in a trance, John walked to the window. Looking out, he saw Sherlock standing on a ledge. Looking around Sherlock, he realized they were standing on the rooftop of St. Bart’s. Sherlock stood on the edge, a roof length away from John, who began to run toward him. Sherlock reached his arm out toward John, pleading.  
“John, please. If you love me you’ll save me. Please. Do you love me John? Will you save me John?”  
John was crying again as he ran, slower than he would like as his limp suddenly returned with full-force. “Sherlock! I’m coming! Just hold on! Please!”  
“John!” Sherlock yelled his name as he fell backward over the edge of the roof. John suddenly found himself at the edge of the roof, just out of reach of Sherlock as he tumbled over the ledge. Screaming his name, John leaned over the edge, trying to reach his friend, when he saw Sherlock wasn’t falling. He had disappeared completely.  
“Sherlock! Where are you?!” John yelled at the open air.  
“Here,” a deep baritone voice sneered behind John’s back. He barely had time to turn his head and take in Sherlock’s twisted expression of hate and malice before the latter man thrust his arms forward and shoved John off the ledge.  
John felt himself falling and could barely muster the strength to scream before he hit the cold, hard ground.

“Sherlock!”  
John’s muffled yell sounded into the floor, where he found his face. One of the blankets twisted around his body, his eyes were staring at the darkness below his bed. Breathing rapidly, his heart rate at an unhealthy pace, he sat up and looked at the top of the bed. Sherlock was lying there on the right of the bed, back facing John. He seemed to be still asleep, until he spoke.  
“You were thrashing about, so I woke you up. Nightmare, I assume?”  
“You pushed me off the bed?” John replied.  
“Obviously.”  
“There are other ways of waking me up,” John responded, his exasperation lost in the aftermath of the dream.  
“Irrelevant. Your thrashing was disturbing my sleep and you needed to be awakened post-haste. I chose the quickest solution,” Sherlock said as he turned over to look at John. The older man was rubbing a hand over his face as he tried to calm his breathing, looking, if anything, even older. Sherlock’s brow furrowed in a rare obvious display of concern. “Your cheeks are wet.”  
John didn’t respond, choosing instead to turn his head and rub at the offending tear-streaks. He gathered the blanket from the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched in shame or embarrassment, or both.  
“Which one?” Sherlock asked. He didn’t have to specify his question. For the year and a half since Sherlock’s return John’s nightmares had lessened, but when they came into being, they came in the form of one of two separate dreams. Both encompassed the biggest traumas John had experienced in his life: Getting shot in Afghanistan and The Fall. John didn’t answer right away. He scrunched his eyes shut, but snapped them back open when all he could see was Sherlock falling from the hospital. His breathing was still ragged, but returning to normal. He felt fresh tears prickling his eyes as he answered.  
“You. But it was different.” He didn’t turn to face his friend-cum-lover. Sherlock sat up, fully awake. Moving his legs around, he situated around John until John was between Sherlock’s legs, his back to Sherlock’s chest, with Sherlock’s arms wrapped around John’s waist. The brunette’s head rested on John’s shoulder. John’s tensed muscles relaxed at the comforting embrace.  
“Do you wish to talk about it? Or simply forget about it? I am reasonably confident that I can make both happen,” Sherlock offered as he peppered a kiss onto John’s shoulder.  
“Both. Neither. I don’t know what to say, yet I know I can’t forget it.” The dream had attacked one of John’s deepest insecurities: helplessness. John didn’t do vulnerable. John always had a course of action, a means of achieving an end. John was always able to do something. Watching his best friend plummet to his ‘death’ had made John feel insufferably helpless, and that feeling chased him for years, even after Sherlock’s return. The more John pushed it away, the more it ate at his soul. He had thought Sherlock had died, and John had stood there watching, helpless. Poor, helpless, sad John. Now his subconscious had brought another factor into play with that feeling: resentment. Not on John’s behalf, but on Sherlock’s. Could Sherlock, even though he orchestrated the entire ordeal, could there be a part of Sherlock that resents John’s lack of action? Sherlock watched his best friend stand across the street watching as Sherlock supposedly jumped to his death. Could there be a hint of resentment or anger at John for doing nothing to stop him?   
The thought brought on another wave of shame and John felt a tear roll down his cheek. Sherlock’s thumb brushed it away.  
“I didn’t stop you.” John turned his head to look Sherlock in the eyes for the first time that night. The shame and humiliation Sherlock saw swirling in the deep brown eyes crushed him. He blinked to tell John he was listening and to continue.  
“It started out normal-ish. Then your head….and you were accusing me…and you were falling and I couldn’t reach you…Just like that day. I didn’t stop you. I didn’t catch you. I didn’t do anything. It haunts me.” John squeezed his eyes shut. The wrinkles on John’s forehead and around his tight mouth deepened. Sherlock reached a hand up to smooth them away.  
“John, I forced you to be helpless. If you had been allowed to try and stop me, the plan would have failed, and you would be dead. As follows, so would I. It’s that you couldn’t do anything, not that you didn’t. You would have if the plan had allowed it.”  
“Yes, well, I didn’t bloody well know about a plan then, did I? All I knew is that the one person who meant the most to me in the world was currently throwing himself off a building and I couldn’t find a way to make my damned feet move. Even with your perfectly-timed biker,” John added, sensing Sherlock’s protest, “I should have been able to will myself to move. To do something. I’m a bloody soldier, for Christ’s sake! I’m trained to do something.” John’s head hung from his neck.  
Sherlock’s face relaxed in comprehension. “You believe I resent you for it.” John’s head snapped away from Sherlock’s in confirmation. Gently, Sherlock took hold of John’s chin and turned his head to face him. Reluctantly, John’s eyes met Sherlock’s.  
“John Watson, I could never resent you for anything, let alone that. You are what kept me alive. The thought of you, being able to see your smile again, look into your eyes once more, is what kept me going and provided my strength to fight my war. The only way I could have ever resented you is if you had moved to save me, because it would have ruined the plan. You would have moved, the biker would have missed you, you would have witnessed my safe landing, and Moriarty’s men would know I hadn’t died. The sniper would have shot out my heart straight through your forehead. Then where would I be? I’m lost without my blogger.”  
John’s eyes closed in relief and his forehead rested against Sherlock’s. A small smile found it’s way onto the blonde man’s lips. Opening his eyes, John pressed forward and placed a gentle kiss against Sherlock’s lips. “I love you.”  
Sherlock’s lips quirked in a smile reflecting of John’s. “My John.” Sherlock untangled himself from John and laid back onto the bed, arms open. John nestled himself into his lover’s arms and Sherlock wrapped the cover back around the two of them.  
Sherlock began humming low, softly in John’s ear. It was the piece John most loved to hear Sherlock play on his violin. Sighing, John allowed the warmth of the embrace and the whispers of love in the music lull him into a dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if Sherlock seems a little OOC. I wanted to throw in some rare Sherlock affection. I feel as though if Sherlock ever IS like this, it's specifically when only John can see it and it's mostly for John's benefit.


End file.
